


The Knife called Moral

by Kayoi1234, Rat_In_The_Wall



Category: Fairy Tales & Related Fandoms, Jack and the Beanstalk (Fairy Tale), Little Red Riding Hood - All Media Types, Original Work, The Boy Who Cried Wolf - Fandom
Genre: Crossover, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, The boy who cried wolf is Peter, but it's not on fanfiction, from fanfiction, i guess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-04-28 04:58:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14441859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kayoi1234/pseuds/Kayoi1234, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rat_In_The_Wall/pseuds/Rat_In_The_Wall
Summary: Every story has morals. It's been pounded into our heads and done over and over. But what if morals didn't exist? We'd be left with an empty void of these tales. Lines that don't cross, words leading to nowhere, a beginning without an end. Imagine, through these waves of words that mean nothing, there's a moral out there? Death. Death is what makes a grim story, to cause the reader to wail. The Villain dies along with those who were awful to our Hero. That’s our happy ending, correct? Our Hero has no more agony, no more pain. But, what if our hero was abused? Goodbye home and family. They're on the streets now. No one can simply kill the streets. Moral tries to stick their nose into others’ affairs and causes more pain. In this world, Moral is awry in some lives, and vacant in others. In the life of foul Morals, the only way to tie them back together is to fix it. But Moral isn't a king. You can't go to it, slap it across the face and tell it to behave. It's not a car, a faulty one that can be fixed by a clever mechanic. It's only an idea. How do you fix something you can't see? Well, Jack doesn't know or care. He only wants everything to go fine, to live in a world his grandpa admires and misses, a world where all is well.





	1. Nostalgia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Chapter was done by Captain Yasai, However, I was the one who owned the chapter's locally, so I posted the chapter. However Any other chapters done by them however will be posted by them.

Jack could feel his heart pounding in his chest, blood circulating at a rabbit-fast pace as his booted feet took him to the place he'd sworn not to ever look at again. He'd stolen from a home, felled a giant with the swing of his axe, and faced his mother with a determined 'no'. He'd even remembered meeting Daisy, the giant goose who's body rotted inside, and laid giant, black, bloodstained eggs that would never hatch. Even then, he could compose himself, could bring himself to breathe deeply and control the shaking of his hands. Today he couldn't.

He little cottage was just as he remembered it, deep, tucked away within the woods, the vines of nature not yet claiming the house and burying it with green. He remembered the small vegetable garden out the front, with giant, fruity red tomatoes, and small, thumb sized potatoes, the uneven gravelly path, which, when young, caused him to break his ankle when playing a harmless game of tag.

Now, he stood on the path, in his black boots and straight back, his mind shoved back to the times when he was in his preteens, asking a girl out, and reacting over dramatically when she said no, running, running from her, and this house, crying and making it a law, his law, to never come back again.

After he got his bearings, it had been a year since he'd seen her, and he was simply too afraid of her. Afraid of her reaction, from not seeing her for so long, of avoiding her if he saw the tiniest flash of red, from running the other direction whenever he heard her name, he was afraid that she'd forgotten, or hated him, let all the anger of not seeing him boil up and up, until she could no longer stand the sight of him.

He was an adult now, twenty-five, and only now did it occur to him how much he needed her in his life, even if she didn't need him in hers.

Still, his fingers were wrung, and his elbows digging into his sides. No doubt, his pale face would be ghastly. His hair, which he'd styled to tone down his bed hair, would have his hands running through it and ruining his accomplishment. His stomach was a mess of knots, and he was determined to at least make it past the vegetable garden before he vomited.

He brought his feet one by one in front of the other. The gravel scraping, loud and scratchy, a tone that brought along an onslaught of memories, times of playing in these fields. No doubt, the sound would have alerted whoever was in the house that he was here, that someone was at the front of the house, and they'd be rushing to the front door. Jack wanted to make himself invisible, he wanted to see her before she saw him, and he wanted to catch her expression before she had the chance to compose herself.

He could do that. He could do that if he was faster, if he reached the door before she could. But he didn't want to go. It was a strange push and pull feeling. He was older now, set with a determination to change things, and make things different, yet the past haunted him, and he found himself unable to accelerate or slow down, caught somewhere in between.

But suddenly the door was there, it presented itself to him, the white, carved wood, hollow sounding whenever he knocked on it as a kid, yet strong enough to shake the house if he accidentally slammed it. The doorknob, painted white just like the door, was frayed and peeling, revealing the golden tint underneath.

Jack found this a bit strange, why they would paint white over this beautiful, golden colour, but the clatter of dishes and someone cursing inside brought him back to the reason why he decided to set foot here, when he banned himself from doing so, long ago. Tentatively, he knocked. It was so light that even he doubted if he'd knocked or not.

Jack allowed himself a short, but sharp intake of breath. His hands were shaking and he'd wrapped his arms around his body, realising this, he dropped them quickly, squared his shoulders and straightened his already straight back. He knocked again, louder, this time.

There was a loud crash as the dishes were set down, and this time, Jack could hear the intended anger in the action. There were soft, yet vexed paddings of socked feet as they stomped towards the door. With each step, Jack could feel his dignity and strength going down, shrinking, and he took a step back from the door because the walls came crashing down too easily, too quickly, and it was all too overwhelming for him. He could not prepare, and coax himself into feeling better in time, before the door creaked open, held by a long arm, draped in red.

Jack stared at the startlingly bright colour, deep in contrast with the neutral colours of the house. He kept staring at the red, as if doing so would stop him from facing the reality, from facing what he'd feared for so long. But then he realised he was being stupid – he was twenty-five, not some kid in his teens, and dragged his eyes to meet the face of the one he loved so many years ago.

She was composed. She gave off that vibe. But Jack could see the clench in her jaw, how her eyes were a little too wide. She didn't try to adjust herself, as that would give it away immediately, that she was uncomfortable, any onlooker would be able to sense that.

Jack did as he was raised to. He offered a smile.

The small intake of breath, Jack didn't miss that. She shifted, but didn't change her expression.

"Jack."

He wanted to punch himself for looking at her mouth as she said that. Her voice defined every word, and her red lips wrapped around the vowel in his name, caressing every tone, under-tone, and everything in between. Her voice didn't have the same, high-pitched range to it, and was lower, smoother, and ran over his name like chocolate. Jack desperately wanted to hear her say it again, on repeat until he no longer knew what the word was and what it meant to him.

Jack had a sudden mind blank. He was lost, lost in the jumble of syllables and letters that were quickly flooding his mind, stupid things like 'she's so pretty tell her she's pretty' and 'what sun decided to shine upon me on this glorious day?'.

Instead, he barely managed to force out, "come with me."

She raised a dark eyebrow. Jack recalled it being a fair, brown colour, but, like the rest of her body, it was darker now. Her hair, which used to cascade down her back in gentle, light slopes, was now short, and chocolate in colour, concaving around her jaw, and showing her small, delicate ears, pink and elf-like.

She was tall, lean, and Jack noticed, with small surprise, that she had developed a lot of muscle on her biceps, and they were clearly displayed through the long-sleeved, red V-neck she was wearing. Her fingers were long and bony, but her knuckles were pink, and scratched, though she seemed un-bothered by it. The sun weathered down her light skin, and it was now a rich, olive colour, highlighting the brightness of her eyes and the deep, natural colour of her lips.

Jack suddenly found it unfit to call her 'Little Red Riding Hood', as he did when he was younger.

"Why?" she suddenly asked, changing her position to lean on the door-frame. She didn't voice it, but Jack could see the underlying question in the air, 'why should I, if you left me years ago?'

Jack took a breath, and readied himself for her reaction. "I need you."

She tilted her head up, a small, almost unnoticed action, that flaunted off her sharp jawline and slender neck, and would've made a man weaker than Jack fall to his knees. Jack could almost feel the question before it was asked.

"You? Need me? After more than ten years?"

He couldn't make a move after that. It wasn't because he couldn't retort to that inquiry, but rather, because his breath was ripped out of him when she exhaled quietly and tucked her hair behind her ears. "Yes," he felt as if he was throttling himself with his own words, "yes, I do." 

Jack knew he was fiercely un-loyal. He'd known what happened to her over the past years, how to wolf had rampaged her house while she was gone, how her grandmother and family were nothing but shreds of red blood that splattered the walls. He'd known, he was possibly the only one she had left in her life, the only one who could bring her hugs and comfort, especially in times of need, but he was afraid, wrapped up in his own selfish wants, and let the news travel around the world, letting it float through one ear and out the other, how even the triumphant tale of 'Little Red Riding Hood', fell victimised to the deranged setting of Moral.

Now he was back, asking pointlessly for help that wouldn't be returned, and letting guilt tangle its spindly hands around his throat.

Little Red Riding Hood, the love of his childhood, tightened her grip around her arms, and picked at the long sleeve of her shirt, brows furrowed, nails digging and digging.

"Fine."

Jack was almost knocked over with surprise.

"Fine. I'll help you."


	2. Silent Observations

Red Riding Hood had muttered a “Come back tomorrow. It’s late in the afternoon.” Before softly shutting the door.

Jack stood in front of the door, staring at the peeling white paint on her door, the way the afternoon sun reflected off the windows, the orchids, irises and cornflowers blooming in the planter’s box on the window sill. He notices that there are still no poppies, roses or marigolds. Maybe the colour red still causes her nightmares.

He stood there for a minute, listening to the birds singing in the trees, the quiet rustle of the leaves before turning and leaving.

He doesn’t quite remember why he turned up to her door stop after avoiding her for 10 years. Then he just turns up, asking her to join him.  

* * *

He walked back down the forest track, before emerging from the brush, and walking down the road towards town. He walks past the bakery, with its smells of baked goods, not as pungent as the morning but still there, as the pair of bakers there closes up the shop. He heard rumours they still can’t have a baby.

He strolls past the blacksmith cursing as the burly man puts out the coals. He sees the young girl walking home, skipping without a care in the world. He sees men, stumbling out of pubs and inns and vomiting on the packed earth that served at the main road. He ignores them too, especially their jeers for him to join them inside, have a beer or two.

He arrives home. A small, wooden shack, with pile of logs against the side. The house itself looks like a strong of gust of wind could blow it down.

Opening the door, he yells “I’m home!”

There is no reply.

He sighs, before shutting the door behind him. He lights a lamp hanging in the corner of the room, collapses on the cheap bed he constructed out of wood, hay and a blanket.

But didn’t he have giant’s treasure?

“ _What good is giant’s treasure”_ He asks himself. “ _When Morals make the tax collectors come and take it anyway?”_

He lies on his bed, staring at the ceiling.

It’s a while before he can fall asleep.

-LINE BREAK-

Jack’s back in front of the house in the woods again the next morning. He knocks on the peeling white paint on the door again, quiet the first two knocks. The he knocks again. Louder.

Red Riding Hood opens the door again. She looks annoyed, almost angry.

Jack feels like disappearing.

“Are we going now?” She asks a hand on her hip.

She has a maroon travelling cloak, pinned to her left, the hood down to show her short, chocolate brown hair. She changed out the red long sleeve, replacing it with a light brown, leather tunic. She had dark brown leggings on, and black boots. There was a belt, and hangings off it were a pair of knives, the leather wrapped handles worn with use.

“Yeah. Let’s go.” Jack says quietly, leading her towards the next town.

Oh how he wished to call Red Riding Hood by her real name. To call her “Roux”.

* * *

 

The pair arrives at the next town. The small town was quiet, except for the occasional bark of a dog, or a jeer of a drunken man asking Roux to join them. She tugs her cloak closer to herself, so Jack glares at them until they leave her alone.

They arrive at a farmhouse, with walls made of a dark wood and a thatch roof. They have a vegetable garden, with plants such as peas crawling up poles and lettuce growing in rows. Jack notices they have beans, and suppresses the urge to rip them apart.  The path is well worn from use, and the door is painted in a bright blue. The windows are just holes in the wall.

Rou-no, Red Riding Hood- knocks on the door once. Twice. Then the door opens, revealing a man.

He’s well built, with dirty blond hair in a messy bed head. His cold, blue eyes seemed to scan them, taking in posture, placement of hands, stance, body language. His hands a calloused, showing signs he is a farmer, not a murderer.

Jack feels his hand drift towards the sword he has buckled to his hip.

“How can I help you?” The man asks, crossing his arms.

Jack stares at him.  Looks at him in the eye. Challenging him almost. “Well _Liar_. Do we meet again?” He spat at him, a hand on the hilt of his sword.

“You got a problem with that, _Thief_? Or should I call you _Giant-killer_?” The man snaps back.

“I don’t care what you call me Peter. I’m just here to ask you something.”

Peter raises an eyebrow. “Well then? Shoot.”

Jack takes a deep breath. He looks at Peter straight in the eye and says “Come with us. We’re searching for something and we want you to join.”

“What do I get out of it?” Peter asks, uncrossing his arms and reaches for something next to him.

“ _Seems like everyone is armed these days.”_ Jack thinks to himself.

“You get an adventure.” Red Riding Hood says a hand on one of her knives.

“But do I get anything else?” Peter asks, revealing a glaive as he pulled it out from behind the wall, the cold steel glinting in the cold morning light.

Jack thinks for a moment, before saying “You’ve become selfish Peter. I would have expected more from you _Liar_.”

Peter thinks for a moment, before sighing.

“Fine. I’ll come.” Peter says, before closing the door.

Jack can hear crashes, and cursing before the door is opened again. Peter emerges, wearing travelling clothes. His glaive is strapped to his back, the blade pointing down.

They set off again, silent.

For if they were friends, they might of not suffered consequences.

Jack is not as oblivious as everyone thinks. He can see the stiffness in Red Riding Hood’s shoulders, the cold glint in Peter’s eyes, the clenching of their fists.

Jack has forgotten why he went to Peter’s place. Maybe is something he shouldn’t question.

He doesn’t know the reason. He thinks that he doesn’t want to, either.

**Author's Note:**

> We don't own the fairy tales that are mentioned in this story, nor do we own any references to popular culture we may make.


End file.
